“But I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
Gregson gave a little laugh which he transformed into a cough.
“Oh really?” he said. “But the Head will soon know what we mean. David—I mean Brother Blaize knows.”
David had caught the wink correctly. He put on a scornful face.
“Oh, that!” he said. “Yes, disgusting. You should be more careful about shutting your door, Manton. I and Gregson were walking about the house in slippers, following the example of the sixth form.”
“But I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Manton.
“Right oh. We won’t talk about it any more—to you.”
It was in vain that Manton assured himself that, as was perfectly true, his conscience was as clear as noon-day, for this wicked and subtly-acted fraud on the part of those fifth-form devils made him uncomfortable in spite of himself. And though he had not told the Head anything false about this beastly Court of Appeal, he certainly had not put their side of the case before him with the directness that it now appeared they were going to do on their own behalf. He had not, for instance, said that the Court of Appeal propped up, endorsed, supported the authority of himself and Crossley far more than they overrode it, though it was perfectly true (as he had told the Head) that they arrogated the supreme authority to themselves. Nor had it occurred to him to tell the Head that he and Crossley were quite incompetent to maintain discipline, that they got ragged to the point of having soap put in their kettles, that they toured the house in slippers. Truly the supplement to his tale was likely to be as voluminous as the tale itself.
Then David rose.
“Well, I don’t think we need detain you,” he said politely, “in fact, we’ve got a good deal to talk over among ourselves. Thanks awfully for coming. I expect we shall all meet again at the Head’s. That’s all then.”